“Nevertheless, a fog at sea can be a source of intense relish and enjoyment.  Abstract from the experience of the sea-fog, for the moment, its danger and practical unpleasantness; ... direct the attention to the features ‘objectively’ constituting the phenomena—­the veil surrounding you with an opaqueness as of transparent milk, blurring the outlines of things and distorting their shapes into weird grotesqueness; observe the carrying power of the air, producing the impression as if you could touch some far-off siren by merely putting out your hand and letting it lose itself behind that white wall; note the curious creamy smoothness of the water, hypercritically denying as it were, any suggestion of danger; and, above all, the strange solitude and remoteness from the world, as it can be found only on the highest mountain tops; and the experience may acquire, in its uncanny mingling of repose and terror, a flavour of such concentrated poignancy and delight as to contrast sharply with the blind and distempered anxiety of its other aspects.  This contrast, often emerging with startling suddenness, is like the momentary switching on of some new current, or the passing ray of a brighter light, illuminating the outlook upon perhaps the most ordinary and familiar objects—­an impression which we experience sometimes in instants of direst extremity, when our practical interest snaps like a wire from sheer over-tension, and we watch the consummation of some impending catastrophe with the marvelling unconcern of a mere spectator.”

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It has often been noted that two, and two only, of our senses are the channels of art and give us artistic material.  These two senses are sight and hearing.  Touch and its special modifications, taste and smell, do not go to the making of art.  Decadent French novelists, such as Huysmann, make their heroes revel in perfume-symphonies, but we feel that the sentiment described is morbid and unreal, and we feel rightly.  Some people speak of a cook as an “artist,” and a pudding as a “perfect poem,” but a healthy instinct rebels.  Art, whether sculpture, painting, drama, music, is of sight or hearing.  The reason is simple.  Sight and hearing are the distant senses; sight is, as some one has well said, “touch at a distance.”  Sight and hearing are of things already detached and somewhat remote; they are the fitting channels for art which is cut loose from immediate action and reaction.  Taste and touch are too intimate, too immediately vital.  In Russian, as Tolstoi has pointed out (and indeed in other languages the same is observable), the word for beauty (krasota) means, to begin with, only that which pleases the sight.  Even hearing is excluded.  And though latterly people have begun to speak of an “ugly deed” or of “beautiful music,” it is not good Russian.  The simple Russian does not make Plato’s divine muddle between the good and the beautiful.  If a man gives his coat to another, the Russian peasant, knowing no foreign language, will not say the man has acted “beautifully.”